“Do you speak English?” I ask a stranger from Latvia. “Yes… I’m looking for Feodor Svantanich or whoever’s handling his accounts.”

“Hi, I’m trying to reach Lucinda Llanos,” Charlie says. “Or whoever has her accounts.”

There’s a short pause.

“Hi,” we both say simultaneously. “I’d like to open a corporate account.”

“Okay, and can you read me the number one more time?” Charlie asks a French man who he keeps calling Inspector Clouseau. He scribbles down the number and calls it out to me. “Tell your English bloke it’s HB7272250.”

“Here we go – HB7272250,” I say to the rep from London. “Once it comes in, we want it transferred there as soon as possible.”

“Thanks again for the help, Clouseau,” Charlie adds. “I’m gonna tell all my rich friends about you.”

“Wonderful,” I say. “I’ll look for it tomorrow – and then hopefully we can start talking about some of our other overseas business.”

Translation: Do me this solid and I’ll throw you so much business, it’ll make this three million look like gum money. It’s the third time we’ve played this game – relaying the account number of one bank to the bank that precedes it.

“Yeah… yeah… that’d be great,” Charlie says, switching to his I-really-gotta-run voice. “Have a croissant on me.”

Charlie hops out of his seat as I lower the receiver. “Aaaaaaannnnnnnd… we’re done,” he says as soon as the phone hits the cradle.

My eyes go straight to the clock. Eleven thirty-five. “Damn,” I whisper under my breath. In a blur, I rake the loose pages of the Red Sheet back into one pile and stuff them in my briefcase. “C’mon, let’s go,” Charlie demands, flying toward the door. As I run, I shove the chairs back under the table. Charlie sweeps the bagels back on their tray. Neat and perfect. Just like we found it.

“I got the coats,” I say, grabbing them from the chair.

He doesn’t care. He just keeps running. And before the receptionist notices the blur in front of her desk, we’re gone.

“Where the hell were you guys – braiding each other’s hair?” Shep asks as we plow into his office. Ten minutes and counting. I throw the coats on the leather sofa; Shep leaps out of his seat and jams a sheet of paper in front of my face.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Transfer request – all you need to do is fill in where it’s going.”

Ripping the mess of paperwork from my briefcase, I flip to the Red Sheet marked England. Charlie bends over so I can use his back as a desk. I scribble as fast as I can and copy the account info. Almost done.

“So where’s it finally going?” Shep asks.

Charlie stands up, and I stop writing. “What’re you talking about?”

“The last transfer. Where’re we putting it?”

I look to Charlie, but he returns a blank stare. “I thought you said…”

“… that you could pick where the money goes,” Shep interrupts. “I did – and you can bounce it wherever you want – but you better believe I want to know the final stop.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” I growl.

“Guys, can we just save this one for later?” Charlie pleads.

Shep leans in, plenty annoyed. “The deal was to give the two of you control… not to freeze me out altogether.”

“So suddenly you’re worried we’re going to keep the cake?” I ask.

“Fellas, please,” Charlie begs. “We’re almost out of time…”

“Don’t fuck with me, Oliver – all I’m asking for is a taste of some insurance.”

“No, all you’re asking for is our insurance. This is what’s supposed to keep us safe.”

“I just hope you both realize you’re about to blow this whole thing,” Charlie says. Neither of us cares. That’s how it always is with money – everything gets personal.

“Just tell me where the damn bank is!” Shep explodes.

“Why? So you can live your duffel bag fantasy and leave us chewing dirt?”

“Dammit, you two, no one’s leaving anyone!” Charlie shouts. Shoving himself between us, he reaches out and grabs my stack of Red Sheets.

“What’re you doing?” I yell, pulling them back.

“Let… go!” Charlie insists with one last yank. The top two pages tear in half and I fly backwards. I’m fast enough to regain my footing, but not fast enough to stop him. Spinning toward Shep, he flips to the bottom of the pile, pulls out the Red Sheet marked Antigua, and folds it back so you can only see one bank on the list.

“Charlie… don’t!”

Too late. He covers the account number with his finger and rams it in Shep’s face. “You got it?”

Shep studies it with a quick look. “Thank you… that’s all I ask.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Charlie shoots back. “If we sit here arguing, no one’s getting anything – so finish the damn paperwork and get going. We’ve got only a few minutes!”

Spinning toward the clock, I check for myself.

“Eyes on the prize, Oliver. Eyes on the prize,” Shep says.

“Go, go, go!” Charlie shouts as I jot in the last line. He just gave away our entire insurance policy – but it’s still not worth losing everything. Not when we’re this close. Charlie stuffs the Red Sheets back in my briefcase; I’ve got a stack of forty abandoned accounts under my arm. Stumbling out the door, I don’t once look back. Just forward.

“That’s the way, bro,” Charlie calls out.

Here we go. Time to nab some cash.

Charlie slams the door behind me and I rush down the fifth-floor hallway, still juggling a mound of paper. On my right, the doors to the public elevator slide shut, which is why I double my pace and head straight for the private one in the back.

The indicator panel above the doors is lit up at eight… then seven… then six… I can still catch it. I rush forward and punch in the six-digit code as fast as I can. Just as I hit the last digit, the abandoned accounts pile gives way. I pull the full stack against my chest, but the pages are already sliding down my stomach. They crash to the floor and spread out amoeba-style. Dropping to my knees, I madly shuffle them back into place. That’s when the elevator sounds. The doors slide open and I’m staring at two sets of nice shoes. And not just anyone’s nice shoes…

“Can I help you with that, Oliver?” Lapidus asks as I look up to see his wide grin.

“Still using the boss’s code, huh?” Quincy adds, jamming his arm in front of the door to hold it open.

I force a strained smile – and feel the blood seep from my face.

“Do you need some…”

“No. I got it,” I insist. “You two go ahead.”

“Don’t worry,” Quincy teases. “We’re thrilled to wait.”

Seeing that they’re not leaving, I straighten the pile, scramble to my feet, and join them inside the elevator.

“What floor would you like, sir?” Quincy adds.

“Sorry,” I stutter. Once again forcing a grin, I reach forward and press four. My finger shakes as it taps the button.

“Don’t let him get to you, Oliver,” Lapidus offers. “He’s just mad he doesn’t have his own protégé.” Like always, it’s the perfect reaction to the situation. Like always, it’s exactly what I want to hear. And like always… just as he pulls me close for the fatherly hug, he’s carving his initials straight into my back. Drop dead, Lapidus. The whipping boy is moving on.

There’s a ping and the elevator doors glide open. “See you tomorrow,” I say, feeling like I’m about to vomit.

Quincy nods; Lapidus pats me on the shoulder.

“By the way,” Lapidus calls out, “did you have a nice conversation with Kenny?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, leaving them behind. “It was just perfect.”

Fighting the vertigo that’s pounding my head, I speedwalk down the hallway. Eyes front. Stay on course. By the time I approach The Cage, my whole body’s numb. Hands, feet, chest – I can’t feel a thing. In fact, as I reach down to open the door, my hands are so sweaty, and the doorknob’s so cold, I’m worried I’m going to spot-weld right to it. My stomach caves out from under me, begging me to stop – but it’s too late – the door’s already open.